


Easy Things That Weigh Down the Tongue

by DreamingStarkly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Team Free Will, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingStarkly/pseuds/DreamingStarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is fine. Cas is fine. The world is fine. </p>
<p>Dean is making normal work. Except for one small hiccup, and it isn't enough to keep him from being a good hunter, a good brother, or a good friend. And it sure as hell isn't as bad as it could be--so he hides it. </p>
<p>Trigger warning for depression and PTSD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Things That Weigh Down the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspiration for my upcoming DeanCasBigBag, partial catharsis because I’m feeling incredibly down due to hormonal things. 
> 
> Spoilers through season 8, up to 8.20: Pac-Man Fever. Possible canon-divergent depending on how season 8 ends.

They’re safe. Well, as safe as they can be. The battle has been fought, the monsters put to bed and all that jazz. Sam’s still breathing, still walking.

Cas...well. Cas is still Cas, even without the showy disappearing act. Sleeping, actually. Crazy thing, that.

Dean assumed things would be easier now. Or, at least he hoped it would be. He had things to hope for. Another LARPing tournament with Charlie. Maybe he could paint Sam’s room. Invest in an updated kitchen. Go for a nice long drive without having to end up killing something.

His hand clenched at the damp shirt in his hand and he swallowed, his tongue heavy and thick in his mouth. His skin began to crawl and freeze. A numbing sort of detachment began to wash over the back of his neck and settle into his stomach.

No, not now.

Not when things were turning out some sort of right in the godforsaken life of his.

****

~*~

****

It would happen in spurts, and always when he was alone. It was easier that way. He would lie awake at night, staring up at nothing and not moving for hours. Until Sam called from the living room, or Castiel rapped on the door mumbling something about not knowing how to switch the bath faucet to the showerhead.

He began to tell himself that it was a good thing. A normal thing. A human thing, a thing that could be dealt with way more easily than the others. He’d read up on PTSD, on depression, and he was old enough and not so self-deluded to know what it was he was experiencing. It was the chemicals in his brain, worn out from the strain of multiple Armageddons. Like his nearly-bum knees.

On good days, he could even laugh to himself about how little a weight it was, compared to everything else.

****

~*~

 

"Sunuvabitch," Dean hissed, thumping his fist against the wall. The heavy fog was starting to drift in again, and he hated himself for it.  

"He can't've gone far," Sam suggested. "And he brought his phone, so he could call us if he need--Hey, you okay, man?"  

No, he wasn't. He really wasn't. Cas disappeared again. On foot this time, but the damn guy wasn't answering his calls after the first one saying not to find him, and he'll be back in a few days. 

And Sam was giving Dean a _look_ , which meant that he was picking up strange vibes, but he could not worry about that right now. 

"Where are you going?" he demanded when Dean swiped the keys off the table and headed to the door. 

"To bring his ass back here," Dean muttered, yanking the handle. "The guy's not been human a week, who knows what kind of trouble he can get himself into." Sam grabbed hold of Dean, stopping him. 

"He'll be fine, Dean," Sam insisted. Dean huffed and pulled his arm away. "You're the one freaking out here." 

Embarassment and regret clenched in his chest, making the fog seep deeper into his bones until desperation set in.  

"I'm not freaking out," he snapped. "I'm making sure no one else falls apart in this family." He didn't wait for Sam to reply. He turned his back and stomped up to where Baby was parked.  

So Dean drove out, far out into the country and stopped at the first motel he could find. Dean did not get out of bed for three days. 

****

~*~

****

“I said I’m sorry, Dean.”

“And I told you it’s fine. You needed your space,” Dean shrugged from being halfway under Baby’s bumper. “You’re dealing with shit, man. Gotta clear your head sometimes. I can understand that, believe me.” His hands worked on automatic, as a tiny voice in the back of his mind picked up a mantra,  _ **pleasegocaspleasepleasegogoaway.**_

The dark-haired man sighed and knelt by a tire. He was trying to maintain eye-contact, but Dean wasn’t having it. The hunter furrowed his brow, attempting to look engrossed in his mechanical work and not desperate for Cas to leave without asking for a heart-to-heart. Dean wasn’t sure he had the stomach for that kind of thing right now. Not when his stomach was still hollow from not eating the past three days.

“I am not apologizing for being unclear as to why I left,” Castiel stated.

“Well, whatever it is you’re apologizing for, consider yourself forgiven. Why don’t you go help Sam file away some of those old books in the storage room?”  

Cas did not move from his spot for a few more minutes, not speaking. At first Dean thought he was going to be annoyed, but to be honest he didn’t have the strength to be annoyed at this point. As the minutes dragged on, and Cas’s second-hand boots were still in his peripheral, Dean almost felt himself relax and the hazy numbness subside a little to warmth and clarity as his hands worked on Baby’s metal underbelly.  

Which was weird. And way too easy.

****

~*~

****

Exercise was supposed to help, but Dean never did get the hang of running for pleasure like Sam did. His life never really worked that way.

So he tried meditating. It helped a little.

He started to cut out drinking, which was hard. Almost as hard as keeping his brother and his best friend from noticing. Dean tried to avoid them on days where it was too hard to fake, tried driving out to the woods under the guise of checking a lead. He would park the Impala and just lay in the back, staring up at the worn upholstery and trying to find his way back into his body. Trying to feel something other than the dread and the sickness.

Those small things helped, made coping with his own head a little easier. At least it wasn’t getting any worse.

Thank God for small miracles and all that shit, amirite?

****

~*~

****

It was a bad day when he found out, but it wasn’t Dean’s worst. Which made it all the more frustrating.

Dean opened his eyes that morning knowing it was going to be one of those days. He was in the shower a tad too long, letting the hot water pound his head as if it could seep under his skin and warm his slowly freezing heart. His face was slack when he shaved, and the world seemed to move at a painfully slow pace as he dressed.

Already Dean was making plans to get out of the Batcave. Or maybe he could pretend to having a stomach bug again and stay in his room until the fog lifted.

He sat motionless on the edge of his bed, hearing the sounds of Sam thumping around his room next door. He took a deep breath and stood to grab his jacket.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean jerked his head to see Cas lounging on his designated armchair, a book balanced on his knee. Bastard was a morning person.

“Just gonna...grab a few things at the store,” he muttered, grabbing the keys off the table. Castiel put his book aside and stood.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Nah, dude,” Dean tried to get his face to twitch into a smile. “Shampoo run is a one-man job. I got it.” Castiel stared at the hunter for a few more moments, his head cocked slightly to the side. 

“I won’t be a bother.”

Something twisted darkly in Dean’s chest, but he didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

“Whatever,” Dean shrugged.

The ride to the store was a quiet one. Dean could tell that Cas was glancing at him more than usual, but of course he couldn’t bring himself to alleviate the tension that was beginning to line the shoulders of his friend. And it wasn’t like Castiel was a chatty person anyway.

Dean grabbed a cart and immediately went towards the dairy aisle. He grabbed some of that greek yogurt shit Sam liked, and just kept moving. His limbs felt more and more like lead, and all he could think about was leaving.

Cas did not speak, only dropped a few extra items in the cart. By the time they reached the toilet paper, Dean’s mind stuck on a repeat of _ **this was a bad idea i really don’t want to do any of this shit i’m tired i’m tired i’m so fucking tired...**_

“Dean.”

His tongue was heavy as he swallowed and refused to turn his head toward to his friend.

“Are you alright?”

Castiel’s voice was low and Dean did not reply. His hand rose up to swipe at his face, a usually quick gesture of weariness, but his fingers lingered on his eyes. The darkness was a relief to the harsh lights of the supermarket and maybe a grown man standing motionless in the middle of the toiletry aisle looking like he was about to fade into nothing was enough for even a socially clueless psuedo-human like Cas to take notice.

“Let’s go home.”

Dean nodded once. The word scraped across his chest with a heat that was nearly as painful as the gentle hand that led him out of the store.

Vaguely Dean wondered when Castiel learned to drive, and he even managed a half-baked threat regarding the safety of his Baby as Cas directed the car towards the highway.

“Sam thinks you should see a professional about this.”

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. Well, fuck.

“I agree with you,” Cas said, casually responding to Dean’s unspoken rant. “Unless it is to a psychologist or psychiatrist who is familiar with hunters and the paranormal, it would be unwise to speak frankly about your experiences and ailments.”

“Damn straight,” Dean mumbled before looking back out the side window at the blur of green and brown. If Sam and Cas already figured it out, then there was nothing more to say.

“I would, however, suggest that you let one of us know when you...have one of these days. I shouldn’t have insisted on coming with you. I didn’t realize--” He stopped himself, rephrasing. Dean understood what he meant. “But Sam wants- Sam and _I_ want you to feel like you can remain at home and not feel like you are unsafe. Or judged.” 

Dean did not respond. The numbness did that to him. But, still. Something like gratefulness drifted along the edges, and he faintly made a note to think about it.

The rest of the car ride was silent again, with Dean reclined and a spare shirt thrown over his tired and sensitive eyes. Once, only once, he felt Castiel’s hand rest on his shoulder. A silent gesture, one easily shaken off.

But Dean did not want to. The grounding warmth of it lingered even after he removed it to park the Impala outside of the Batcave. 

Sam was a bitch about the whole thing, of course, running a laundry list of reasons why Dean can't keep this kind of thing under wraps. At least he waited until after Dean was feeling more like himself to rag on him. Dean shot down every suggestion at getting a shrink involved, and Sam grudgingly agreed that what Dean was doing in terms of coping and minimizing the effects was helpful. 

"You might need medication, Dean. It could really help." 

Dean made a face at the thought, but sighed, rubbing his chin. As much as he hated bringing his issues into the cesspool of problems the three of them dealt with on the daily, there was no stopping Sam when he was wound up like this. "Okay, how about this. You find me a head-doctor that knows how to deal with our particular level of shit, and I'll think about it." He snorted at Sam's shocked expression. "What? First of all, I'd like to see you try to find someone who isn't as batshit crazy as we are."  

"Dean--" 

"And secondly, I know that this isn't the kind of thing I can just bite the bullet through. So..." Dean waved his hand around vaguely. "If we can get someone willing to figure out how to get this under better control, sign me--OOF." 

Being bear-hugged by his brother was enough for them to drop the issue, and Dean grinned.

****

~*~

 

The next few months were hard, but no harder than the others. Sam asked Garth to keep an ear to the ground for shrinks with a background in weird, but nothing had turned up so far. Dean said it was fine, that they would deal with it as much as they could for now. 

And they did. To be honest, the simple fact that Cas and Sam knew was enough for the numbness to not feel as bad as it came and went.   

Though Cas was turning out to be a real pain-in-the-ass about it, especially on the bad days when the guy refused to move from the chair outside his door. Dean could hear him, when his limbs were too heavy and his chest too icy cold and all he could do is bury his face in his pillows. The chair would squeak slightly when the man moved, and Dean could imagine he was reading or something. It was a really stupid, a non-essential thing. At first he almost got angry at Castiel for wasting time on an empty gesture, but the anger was quickly swallowed by the overwhelming apathy that swept through his bones and he ignored it. 

At some point, though, over the months and scattered days where Dean fell ill, it became routine. They did not talk about it, and neither did Sam (except that one time when Cas was held up in bed himself with the flu and Sam took vigil in his place). It was something as organic as the days when Dean was active, combing through religious texts and flicking dishwater at his brother with a cackle.  

So one day, when Dean woke up on a bad morning, he managed to do one thing and one thing only.  

"Sam, did you move my..."  

Dean was facing away from the door, curled up in his usual cocoon of blankets. But he had left the door open, to let Castiel see the armchair that was shoved in the corner of Dean's room. He heard Cas pause outside the door, and did not hear him move for a handful of long minutes. 

There were a number of questions being asked in that span of silence. Dean could hear them plain as day, but he also knew that Cas wasn't stupid. He could figure it out and make the choice if he wanted to. 

And finally Castiel did move, towards the far corner and into Dean's line of sight and the armchair.  

"Do you need anything?" Castiel asked quietly. Dean lifted his head from the pillows to look at the humanized angel blearily. 

"Just get your book or whatever," Dean muttered, his skin flushing a little red from embarassment. Even after all this time, he was uncomfortable with the fact that Cas felt obligated to accomodate his sickness. "I'm fine." 

Cas nodded and left the room. He came back with a large text and a glass of orange juice, which he left at Dean's bedside before settling into his armchair.  

And so became the new routine. Sometimes it lasted only a few hours, sometimes it took  a couple days for Dean to get back on his feet. Sometimes the chair was in the corner, and sometimes it was flush against the bed. Sometimes the chair disappeared altogether and Dean slept the numbness off with the steady warmth of Cas against his back. 

It became easier. 


End file.
